


perpetua

by oryx



Category: Vagrant Story
Genre: Fictional Religion & Theology, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 15:11:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oryx/pseuds/oryx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The Crimson Blades work as oft in the shadows as any VKP hound," Neesa says. "This you will learn in time.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	perpetua

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rose Argent (roseargent)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseargent/gifts).



> prompt:  
> "Vagrant Story  
> Samantha. Happy endings were not exactly in great supply in Vagrant Story, but Samantha not only got a miserable end, she was stuck largely on the sidelines the whole time. I'd love to see more of her thought process, during the events leading up to her end and especially in that last moment. On the other hand, I'd also love to see Samantha either entirely before meeting Romeo, or in the early stages of their relationship--what was she like before becoming wrapped up in the dream he sold her? Her time training as an officer of the Crimson Blades would be very interesting to explore, especially since we see so little of her actually acting in that role during the events of the game. I'd also be interested in seeing more of her relationship with Neesa, either during earlier days in the Blades or in off-screen moments of the game timeline."
> 
> oh boy. since the religious aspect of the Crimson Blades wasn't addressed all that much in the game i wanted to do something from that angle but man. things kinda went further into God-town than i'd planned. sorry if it's weird uwu

The message arrives on a rainy day – a Day of Repentance nonetheless – carried down to the barracks by Maester Krauss himself, who dabs at his overly red face with a lace handkerchief as he addresses the gathered ranks.

 

The Cardinal has chosen a new Hand.

 

Those lined in the front row seem to stand taller, then, perhaps holding their breath in anticipation. They are the ones who have served the longest; paragons of boundless faith and loyalty who have given themselves wholly to God. If any among them were to be granted such an honor it would be one of those old soldiers, who live for naught but their next order, ready and willing to enact the Cardinal’s holy designs.

 

But the name the Maester speaks is not of their number. It is instead a man from the Eastern Chapter, a one Romeo Guildenstern, and across the room Samantha can see Neesa and Sir Tieger exchange a significant glance.

 

“You know of him?” she says later, as they gather in the dining hall for their supper meal.

 

“I suppose,” Neesa says thoughtfully. “Not personally, of course. But I have heard tell of his character from visiting acolytes. Some claim he is a shrewd man with lofty aspirations, cunning and sly like a fox. Others claim he is charming beyond compare, a devout figurehead of the Priesthood. Which is true I cannot say, but clearly he either has many enemies or a silver tongue. Neither of which I find particularly reassuring.”

 

“He certainly does not sound like a man befitting the title of Hand,” Samantha says, frowning.

 

But Neesa merely laughs at this, her lips curving into a sardonic smile. “I agree,” she says. “But you would be surprised, dearie, at what it truly means to be Hand of the Cardinal. The Crimson Blades work as oft in the shadows as any VKP hound. This you will learn in time.”

 

“But… that cannot be true,” Samantha exclaims. “The Crimson Blades do God’s will. We walk a path lit by His righteousness!”

 

Neesa is still smiling, but there is something sad about it now, something weary and resigned.

 

“Yes,” she says, and reaches across the table to pat Samantha’s hand. “Yes, of course.”

 

\--

 

\--

 

When first she meets him, she thinks that Neesa must have been mistaken. They pass each other in the chapel and his eyes meet hers – she snaps to attention and bows low only to be met with soft laughter.

 

“Be at ease, soldier,” he says, and she lifts her gaze tentatively. “There is no need for such formality in a house of God. We are all equal in His eyes, are we not?”

 

“C-certainly, Commandant,” she stammers. “The Lord knows no rank and file.”

 

“Indeed,” he murmurs. He is staring at her, gold-brown eyes intent and thoughtful, and she feels a faint shiver travel down the length of her spine. He is… a very handsome man. It is improper, she knows, to think of such things in sight of God, but still she cannot help herself.

 

“What is your name, soldier?” he asks.

 

“Samantha, sir.”

 

“Hmm. _Samantha_.” The way he speaks her name is strangely intimate, each syllable lingering overlong on his lips. His voice enfolds her like a lover’s embrace. “A beautiful name for a beautiful young woman. What are you doing here in the Crimson Blades, pray tell? Surely there were other paths you might have taken.”

 

“True enough, sir,” she says. “But I… I wished for nothing more than to serve the Cardinal, and to spread the teachings of Saint Iocus to those without faith in their hearts. And my father schooled me in combat from a young age. The Blades were the only place for me, in the end.”

 

“I understand,” he says. His smile sets her mind at ease and her heart aflutter. “I hope to see great things from you, Lady Samantha. You have the makings of a splendid Blade, that much is plain.”

 

“… Th-thank you, Commandant!” A flush of pride (and perhaps something more) creeps up the back of her neck. “I am honored by your words.”

 

“Please,” he says. “Call me Romeo.”

 

\--

 

\--

 

She is to be the Commandant’s personal guard during his upcoming visit to Valnain Prison. When she announces this to Neesa and Sir Tieger, both of them look highly amused.

 

“Moves quickly, doesn’t he?” Tieger laughs, his deep, booming voice echoing across the courtyard. He is sitting on the sidelines, watching them spar, sharpening the blade of his axe with a whetstone. “Not even here for a fortnight, and already making the acquaintance of a few fine ladies. Mayhaps he’ll come after you next, Neesa. Now _that_ I would like to see.”

 

“Perhaps he’s repressed,” Neesa muses aloud, swinging her spear low and almost knocking Samantha’s feet out from under her. “Not many women in the Eastern Chapter, or so I’ve heard.”

 

Samantha lunges forward, aiming with her sword for Neesa’s unprotected midsection, but finds her target vanished and her blow mysteriously deflected. Neesa is suddenly, inexplicably behind her, the tip of her weapon hovering an inch from Samantha’s throat.

 

“Whatever you’re implying, it is not true,” Samantha huffs, pushing aside Neesa’s spear. “The Hand of the Cardinal does not have such base desires! And even if he did, it is against the precepts!”

 

“Ah yes, the precepts.” Tieger smiles at her and shakes his head. “At this point one might consider them more… _suggestions_ than steadfast rules.”

 

“You’ll find,” Neesa says with a wink, “that those who most strongly enforce them are the most guilty of their nonobservance. Such hypocrisy is the way of the Order, dearie.”

 

Samantha opens her mouth to protest but is cut off by another voice, stern and disapproving:

 

“That’s enough, Neesa, Tieger. What sort of cynical ideas are you putting in the girl’s head today?”

 

She turns to see Sir Duane standing there, a frown tugging at his lips.

 

“Only the truth, Duane,” Neesa says with a sigh. “Only the truth. She’ll have to learn it soon enough, if she plans to make a life for herself here in the Blades. Whether she decides to accept it or to ignore it is a choice only she can make. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

 

She hefts her practice spear over her shoulder and turns to walk away, a hint of underlying tension present in her steps. Tieger affixes Samantha with one last, lingering stare – intense, piercing, and somber – before going the same way as his partner.

 

“Have Neesa and Tieger lost their faith, Sir Duane?” Samantha wonders aloud. “Is that why they scorn the Hand and the Maesters?”

 

Duane is silent for a long moment.

 

“No,” he says finally. “No, I do not think so. In fact… I oft wonder if they are not the most pious of us all. Perhaps it is their love of God that turns them bitter towards the follies of men.” He blinks, then, and clears his throat, as if suddenly remembering himself. “But that is of no import. Continue your training, Samantha. You must be ready for anything if you are to guard the Commandant this coming week.”

 

And then he too turns on his heel and walks away, leaving Samantha alone in the courtyard with her thoughts, tumbling over one another in her mind like pebbles in a stream.

 

\--

 

\--

 

Aboveground, Valnain Prison is little more than a crumbling ruin – shattered windows, creeping ivy, collapsed pieces of roofing through which pale sunlight filters. But below, in the dank, rotting dungeons, heretics of Mullenkamp are kept in chains, awaiting their interrogation and, in most cases, their death. This, Samantha knows. It is a public secret of a sort. But still she cannot help but wince when she enters the interrogation cell and sees the raw, red lash marks on the prisoner’s back, almost blotting out the Rood Inverse tattooed there.

 

“He’s refusin’ to say a word, sir,” the prison guard says to the Commandant, saluting smartly. “I do believe somethin’ a little more… persuasive is in order.”

 

“Indeed,” Guildenstern says, lip curling in distaste as he stares down at the prisoner. “Thank you for your diligence, soldier. You may take your leave.”

 

The guard inclines his head and does just that, closing the door behind him with a resounding clang. Samantha and the Commandant are alone in the dark with a heretic, and the very thought sends her hand to rest on the hilt of her blade.

 

“Why do you not speak?” Guildenstern asks the man. “It would be most wise. You might even escape this prison with your worthless life.”

 

The man is silent. He does not even turn, still sitting with his head bowed, rivulets of blood running down his back.

 

“So be it,” Guildenstern murmurs. Something changes in the air, then, a faint stirring not of wind or breath but of something that Samantha cannot rightly explain. The gloom of the interrogation cell seems to grow deeper, thicker, pooling around her ankles like quicksand. Panic makes her breath catch in her throat, and she presses herself against the wall, trying in vain to shrink away from whatever this ominous presence might be.

 

Guildenstern seems not to notice. He is intent upon the prisoner, and when he next speaks his voice rings odd in Samantha’s ears, as if it were echoing from a distance:

 

“Your loyalty pleases me, Son of Fire.”

 

The prisoner lifts his head. He turns sharply, and even in the dim, flickering torchlight Samantha can see the awe and happiness on the man’s gaunt face.

 

“Lord Losstarot!” he exclaims, prostrating himself at the Commandant’s feet. “Lord Losstarot, you have come for me? I believed in you, Lord. I knew… I knew all along that you would not let me die here.”

 

“Never would I abandon a true believer,” Guildenstern says. “But alas; I sense magick about this place. There is a chance that you are naught but a spectre meant to trap me, or an Inquisitor dressed in another’s skin. Tell me something known only to our own, so I will know your soul to be undefiled.”

 

“N-no, Lord,” the man gasps. “I am real! I am myself still! I, I… Lea Monde, Lord! I know of Lea Monde!”

 

“Lea Monde?” Guildenstern echoes. His voice is normal once more, and the oppressive shadows of the room seem to retreat, somehow, releasing their fearful hold on Samantha’s heart. “What could Sydney Losstarot want with that place?”

 

The prisoner’s desperate smile slips from his face, slowly morphing into agonized confusion. “No,” he whispers. “No, I… I have been tricked! H-how? How can you speak with Lord Losstarot’s voice? How can you use such powers?? That magick belongs to Mullenkamp alone!”

 

“Not any longer, my friend,” Guildenstern laughs. “We of the Order decided long ago to seek that power for our own.” He shakes his head scornfully. “And really, how much of a fool can you be, to fall for such a ruse? As if your precious Lord Sydney would risk life and limb for a mere pawn!”

 

“No,” the man whispers again, voice trembling. His shoulders are shaking. He covers his face with his hands. “No, please…”

 

“Come, Samantha,” Guildenstern says, turning his back on the heretic. “We’ve gotten what we came for.”

 

She follows the Commandant on unsteady legs, more of a rote response than an actual decision. Her mind is a jumble of intruding thoughts, all of them struggling for her attention, each of them as bewildering as the last. She is unsure of what she just witnessed. Unsure if it was all a hallucination or perhaps some mad dream that she may soon wake up from.

 

(As they pass the prison guard in the corridor, Guildenstern puts a hand on the man’s shoulder and says:

 

“Kill him.”)

 

\--

 

\--

 

Through the window the countryside rushes past, forests and farmland lush and green during this abundant Rainy Season. The carriage is silent for many a minute, the only sound that of the creaking wheels and the horses’ hooves. Until finally Guildenstern speaks.

 

“Were you shocked, Samantha, at what you saw in there?”

 

She studies him. His eyes are the same as when she met him the chapel, soft and smiling, and yet she can no longer think of him as that man.

 

“Yes,” she says truthfully. “That magick you used… It is against the precepts. It is against everything Saint Iocus stood for. And yet you claim the Order has been honing it for years past. I do not know what to believe.”

 

“Ah, yes,” he murmurs. “It is all very confusing, is it not? The pursuit of power is such a strange thing. It makes people question what was once beyond reproach, and to forget that which they once held true.”

 

“Why?” she can hear herself asking. “Why does the Order seek to harness the magicks of old? Why would the Maesters defy God’s wishes??”

 

“God’s wishes?” Guildenstern chuckles quietly. “Oh, Samantha. You are so good. So honest and pure. And all your life you have been led astray. You have been told that God loves you endlessly; that He is always watching over you so long as you believe. But this is not true. God cannot love you, because we, the human race, have turned this world He made into a farce. Over the eons we have become ugly, a grotesque, bloated caricature of the beautiful beings He once created. He cannot stand to look at us. God is still there, Samantha, but for ages now His gaze has been averted.”

 

“What are you talking about?” she whispers. “That’s… that’s ridiculous. The Lord has answered my prayers in the past!”

 

“Has He, now? When you were a child, I presume? Those innocent days when your prayers were so simple, and any mere coincidence might look the same as providence?”

 

“I… I do not…” Samantha swallows hard, her hands curling reflexively into fists. “That is – ”

 

“You know,” Guildenstern says, cutting her off. He is staring out the window, a thoughtful set to his features. “They say the magicks of old can even grant eternal life. Let me pose a question to you, Samantha. What would you do with immortality? What would you do, if you had the eternity of time ahead of you?”

 

“I… I do not rightly know, sir,” she says softly. “Such things are beyond my ken.”

 

“Hmm. Yes, I suppose that is a bit tricky to imagine. Life without death, that is.” He pauses, then, and looks over at her with a smile that tells of unyielding dauntlessness. “But if I could live forever, I think… I would use that life to change this filthy world. Purify all those who live tainted lives, and create a society of the truly faithful.

 

"So that someday God will smile upon us once again, just as he did long go.”


End file.
